


En Garde

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fencing, M/M, wagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26863633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: Quentin makes a bet with Eliot and the stakes are high.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23
Collections: Kinktober Horror Erotica Collection by Quentins_Quill





	En Garde

**Author's Note:**

> For Kinktober: The Queliot Edition Day 6, "Sexy Swordfight."

“Bottom? Me?” 

“It was just a thought, El,” Quentin said as he pulled back the duvet on the bed they shared. Night was drawing in all around them, Fillory’s two moons nearly at their apex. Quentin wore hunter green silk pajamas, Eliot orchid. 

“Not exactly the kind of thought one has in passing.” 

“Maybe not. Forget I said anything.” 

“I will most certainly not! And I didn’t say no, did I?” 

“You didn’t exactly seem eager about it, either.” 

“It’s not about eagerness, Q, it’s just . . . I don't know if you’re ready for the shift in power it can cause.” 

“So you want all the power?” Quentin asked in a peevish tone. 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Eliot replied as he ran a brush through his curls at the gilded white vanity table. Quentin glanced up over the carved headboard of the bed, where Eliot had mounted a pair of crossed fencing swords. 

“Okay El . . . let’s make a wager,” He stepped up onto the bed and took the swords down. “If I can disarm you, then you yield to me. If you disarm me, I’ll yield to you. Deal?” He thumbed the end of the foil, capped with a slim gold stopper to protect the tip. 

“Really, Q, I don’t--” 

“Deal?” Quentin repeated, and a smile crept over his lips. “Unless, you know, you’re too worried that I’ll beat you.” 

Eliot set the brush down, an eyebrow raised. 

“If I win, you yield to a much-needed spanking!” 

“Fine,” Quentin smiled and handed Eliot one of the foils. He backed up a few steps, bare feet silent on the carpeting. “En garde!” 

Eliot raised his foil; he had no real fear of hurting his partner thanks to the rounded gold nubs on the ends of the blades. Quentin advanced, one hand on his hip, and Eliot deflected his first parry. 

“Ha!” He exclaimed, then found himself driven back unexpectedly by a series of moves he would have never expected from someone who was sometimes clumsy and usually awkward, even in his own space. Quentin grinned as Eliot turned to gain a higher vantage point by leaping onto the bed and punished him with a brisk smack to his ass with the side of the foil. Eliot yelped in surprise and they parried, Elkiot moving across the bed in bare feet as Quentin matched his steps along the carpet. The foils dipped and touched and flashed in the lantern light that illuminated the room and Eliot’s curiosity--and, he had to admit, frustration--grew with every moment. His concentration wavered and Quentin’s foil trapped the base of his, twisting it from his hand. It clattered to the floor behind the headboard of the bed and Quentin pounced onto the mattress, causing Eliot to wobble and fall on one knee. Quentin pressed in, pointing the end of his foil at Eliot. 

“Do you yield?” He asked mildly, and Eliot gave him a rakish grin. 

“Never!” 

Quentin knee-walked across the bed and Eliot chuffed amusement as his partner sat astride his thighs. The blunt end of the foil rested under his chin and he looked up into Quentin’s dark eyes. The High King’s amusement faded and arousal shivered up his spine as Quentin’s weight settled across his thighs. 

“Do. You. Yield?” 

Eliot swallowed against the foil’s nub. It was dull but implacable. Quentin arched against his groin, where he felt a growing hardness. 

“I ask for mercy,” Eliot replied with a groan. Quentin shifted against him. 

“You might get it,” he nodded. “Say it first.” He leaned over and bit Eliot’s left earlobe. “I bested you,” he whispered in a tone that left Eliot achingly hard, “and I’ll have you . . . so say it.” 

“I yield!” Eliot gasped. The foil withdrew but Quentin straightened and kept his seat, looking smug. 

“So,” Eliot said, trying for a casual tone. “When did you learn to fence?” 

“Remember that Lorian count who visited last month? I gave him a tour of the library and we got to talking. Turns out he was a champion fencer in his youth, so I asked him for some lessons.” Quentin tutted and the lights blew out. “And now I’ll have my prize, thank you!” 

______________________________________________________________________________________________

_ One month later, in Loria  _

“How strange,” Count Dorfron, Lorian emissary, murmured as a large parcel of fresh fruit and flowers arrived at his door. 

“What is it?” The countess, his wife, asked. 

“It’s from High King Eliot, of Whitespire,” Dorfron said as he read the card. “Thanking me quite profusely for his husband’s fencing lessons . . .” he turned the card over. “And if I might return and teach his majesty a few techniques--apparently, he has a score to settle.” 

THE END 


End file.
